


New Son Over Westeros

by Lemonsqueeze13



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dorne (A Song of Ice and Fire), F/F, F/M, Gen, High Fantasy, Multi, Revenge, Self-Insert, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29194182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemonsqueeze13/pseuds/Lemonsqueeze13
Summary: The waters of the Rhoyne soak the dried ink. Reborn as the inconsequential Prince of Dorne, Quentyn Martell will shake the very foundations of Westeros. Through blood, through steel, through knowledge, and through magic - a new son dawns.
Relationships: Ashara Dayne/Quentyn Martell, Oberyn Martell & Quentyn Martell
Comments: 13
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Sunspear - 295 A.C.**

Oberyn I 

The viper could see the old Maester of Sunspear was nervous. Caleotte drew himself deeper into his robes to hide any signs of anxiety, yet the ceaseless beads of sweat pouring from his brow made his state of mind obvious to anybody who cared to notice. 

The meek little maester needn't have worried though, as the collective attention of everyone, in the throne room, of the Old Palace remained stubbornly on the gate leading into it. 

Oberyn took in the rest of the occupants within the room. The line of Dornish warriors that normally stood stiff from entrance to dais had been told to remain absent. This was to be a family affair - and no servants need be present to wag their lips later.

Oberyn Martell waited alongside his delicious paramour Ellaria Sand, and the handful of his Sand bastards that yet remained in Sunspear.

Arianne was there beside them, a woman grown and blossomed fully. The lost expression on her face and the unsure posture however, presented the bearing of a meek child instead. The secrets he and his brother had kept had finally been revealed to her, and reasonably left her distraught. Especially the revelation of how false and pointless her string of rebellions had been. 

Oberyn couldn’t help but frown when he saw Arianne entwine her hands with his daughter Tyene, the only thing more dangerous than her hands had to be her poison tongue; constantly leading Arianne astray into trouble that had long since left the realm of mischief, and instead into borderline treason.

Sat upon his throne was his Prince and brother, Doran Martell. Behind him, his constant, looming, Norvosi shadow, Areo Hotah. Despite the pain he knew it would cause, Doran was visibly tense, clenching the armrests of his seat with all the power the gout would allow. Oberyn would have to advise more than just the small thimbleful of Milk of the Poppy to Caleotte.

Seeing Doran away from the Water Gardens was a rare sight these days. But it was a necessary discomfort the Prince of Dorne would have to endure for the upcoming audience. The river Rhoyne had been born anew in Westeros, and it’s waters were mighty and turbulent. The parched stones of Sunspear were a precaution against the entrant into the throne room.

_The Sword of the Morning, The Doom from Dorne, The Exiled Prince_ Quentyn Martell. 

It had been years since he’d laid eyes on his wayward nephew, and it seemed those years had been exceedingly kind to Quentyn. Tousled hair caressed by the ocean wind, bronzed skin and handsome Dornish facial features made less pleasant by an arrogant grin. He had grown tall, far taller than his parentage would have suggested - his height served only to compliment his strong frame lathered from the desert heat. The greatest sculptors in Dorne would struggle to chisel that figure. Oberyn was sure Ellaria appreciated the view as much as he did, too bad Quentyn was his nephew, his paramour would have enjoyed him thoroughly otherwise. 

Although Oberyn felt impressed at his nephew’s growth, he was severely less impressed by his lackadaisical entry; he was expecting at least a slight show of force from Quentyn. Yet, instead of his renowned personal men-at-arms known as the Tributaries, he came strolling in practically alone.Only his mysterious sworn sword with the famous naked valyrian steel blade, and some Tyroshi servant-girl holding a small sack. 

The hall stayed devoid of all noise until Doran broke the silence with forced evenness. “So, you return.”

“I do. But you don’t seem too happy about that.” Ignoring all courtly procedures, Quentyn did not greet or bow to his lord father. 

Taking offence at the lack of respect paid, Areo Hotah slammed the butt of his long axe hard into the ground, “you are in the presence of Prince Doran Martell of Sunspear, you will afford the appropriate courtesies demanded to him!”

“Should my father explicitly request it, I shall. Until then however…” 

Areo shifted to move on the young Prince, but Doran merely lifted his hand and halted him. “It seems your time away has only increased your insolence, Quentyn. I notice your wife is not with you either.”

Quentyn tilted his head with the minimum amount of respect allowed. “My apologies of course father, but I needed her to take care of a few urgent matters.”

Doran lowered his hand to the armrest and clenched again. “More urgent than addressing her liege lord?”

“Yes.”

Oberyn sensed the mood grew even tenser at this exchange and decided to insert himself in an effort to bleed off the quickly boiling Dornish blood. “I almost failed to recognize you my dear nephew. I see Dornish silks draped on a Dornish man, yet I would sooner mistake you for a pirate than a prince.”

Surprised, Quentyn stared down at himself to see his garb open, torso bare for the world to see. “Indeed, my mistake. Probably best I clothe myself a little more, I did not expect the weather to be quite so cold in Dorne.” Quentyn japed at the particularly lacklustre response from the family.

“Oh come now, don't be so glum. I bring news and gifts!” The Tyroshi girl stepped over to his nephew with the sack, Quentyn quickly reached in, grabbed the prize, and lobbed it at his father and sister’s feet. Arianne screeched and retreated at the splattering blood and viscera, but just as quickly she picked up the head and brought it up to herself in disbelief. Oberyn had seen that head in the past, the dirty white tangles, those dead purple eyes - Viserys Targaryen.

Oberyn almost failed to hear his brother hiss through gritted teeth. “Do you know what you've done? Over a decade of carefully laid plans lost”.

“I never said the news was good.” 

From out of the corner of his eye, Oberyn saw the head fly right back at Quentyn. “You ruined everything!” Arianne screamed in impotent rage while Tyene held her back, “I was to be his Queen, and you took that away from me!”

A small grin rose on Quentyn's face. “I see you finally told her about your secret little marriage pact. Must have been hard for you to actually speak the truth for once.”

“Shut up!” Turning away from the son and striking then to the father, Arianne wailed once more. “I told you but you wouldn't believe me, he's always been like this!”

Suddenly, Oberyn saw the amusement leave Quentyn. “And what exactly am I _‘like’_ Arianne?”

“Jealous. Jealous of me, jealous of my birthright. I've known the covetous gazes of men since I was a girl Quentyn, but while all other men want me, all you've ever truly desired is what I am owed. I know this. When you heard that the Iron Throne was to be mine as well, you stole from me my King, and stole from me my crown!”

“Yes, of course. You're absolutely right. I wanted Sunspear and your birthright so much that I chose exile and sailed to Essos.” He spat acerbically. “Your time in the septs would have been better spent praying for a bigger brain than bigger tits.”

Doran asserted himself between his children. “You find this amusing?” Oberyn could hear patience depleting in his brother's voice; it seemed this conversation was a long time coming - no need to add his own peppers to an already spiced mixture.

“How can I not? Everything you say or do is a joke! All of Westeros mocks us.”

“And they will continue to do so because of you. Had you not interfered, we would someday have had the Iron Throne! Justice ours to finally exact from all who wronged us. Your understanding is clearly lacking, so let me explain to you exactly what your rampage has cost us. We owned Viserys. A puppet King under Martell influence with his marriage to your sister. The realm would have fought for the Targaryen name, and before long the throne would have been ours, with it Lannister heads.”

“I apologize father, How could I not see? Nearly twenty years you spent on this scheme, a shame you'll have to explain to your allies how I ruined your plans. The Reach first of all, they've always had such a good relationship with us Dornish, haven't they? No matter, I'm sure the Stormlands will understand. It's not like Robert Baratheon's brother rules there. If they hadn’t, you can always count on the Riverlands, they have no relation to the crown; except of course their marriage to the Vale and the North - who themselves certainly didn't fight for Robert Baratheon. All the realms would have quaked in their boots when they learnt we march alone for a mad Targaryen King!” 

“The whoremonger king has ensured that goodwill no longer stands with him, given another option the kingdoms will have breathed a sigh of relief - and they would bend the knee.”

“They won’t kneel for a man who can't even stand for himself.” Oberyn almost twisted his neck as he followed the rapid volley between father and son.

Doran shut his eyes, hot breaths of anger poured from his nose. “Maybe so.They won’t kneel for me directly, but they would for a Targaryen. A Targaryen who had a Martell queen to lead him.” There was a certainty to his voice, the same conviction that had led to Oberyn heading to Essos to complete the pact. 

The disgust on his nephews face was visible to all, the sort of expression one had when stepping in shit. “And we saw how well that worked out the last time.” Oberyn stiffened. “I hope you have your ears open for once Arianne, because it is clear that he will have you repeat what happened to Elia Martell!”

At the mention of his sister’s name, Oberyn lost all notion of calm. Grabbing her spear and shoving obara aside, he lunged at Quentyn, who reacted instantaneously. The steel of his spear would pierce flesh, but Oberyn found that should he press forward the steel of Dawn would bite him just as deep. “You will not speak her name.” His own voice sounded the way only cold fury allowed.

People always called Oberyn a fierce man, and he knew it himself for certain, but as his nephew met his eyes unflinching he realized the young man was just as dangerous. “I was always told that you loved her the most, that you were inseparable.” The young prince stubbornly ploughed on despite the likely poisoned steel on the cusp of breaking his skin.

Oberyn felt his blood coursing through his veins, the red haze of rage breaching his mind, itching at him to slay his own kin for his dear departed Elia, but with all his strength he resisted. “We were, until I was forced to leave her. To abandon her to that shit pile of a city!”

“You remember Elia Martell. The rest unfortunately have forgotten. Remind them what happened!” Dawn no longer rested on him, yet Oberyn would not remove the spear from Quentyn, who only pressed further.

“The Lannisters happened! They raped her! they murdered her! Hands stained red with the butchered corpses of her children!” Oberyn roared louder with every word, to beat into the little bastards head the depth of the injustice. He could not stand for her name being taken in vain, for the horrors she experienced all alone to be spoken about so calmly.

“And the Targaryens allowed it!” Quenty roared right back. “Knowing her fate, if you could go back, would you have repeated that mistake? Allow your sister to be ruined by Rhaegar Targaryen?”

“Not even if he had a hundred dragons at his back!”

Quentyn kept his gaze as firm as his voice. “Then what makes you think that I would let Viserys Targaryen destroy mine?”

The thunder cast by both Martell princes silenced the chamber once more. The words spoken spiked into him; his nephew’s rampage gained reason. It tore through him. Oberyn felt as if he may as well be staring at a mirror, a boy looking after his sister. His nephew so much like himself - disrespectful, unyielding, relentless. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. The spear dropped from his hands and clattered to the floor.

Quentyn walked past him - approaching Doran again. “If there was not so much sand in Dorne, we would see the earth stained red with the blood of our people. The iron throne is slick with it, and is thirsty still. Your path will not grant us justice.”

A harsh, bitter laugh tore through Doran’s throat. Oberyn followed his brother’s gaze to witness the various shades of shame surrounding them, Arianne the most vivid. “A horse without legs can't run. Had you not murdered Viserys, I assume you would have enacted violence more directly. Do my choices even matter anymore?”

The son frowned yet again at the father. “If you don’t wish to tolerate me, just give the command. I’ll sail right back to Norvos, and you can carry on as you were. When your daughter, your family, and your country share the same fate as your sister and marriage - I will return once more to fulfill justice. The results and methods will be the same whether now or later, the only difference being that you may not be there to see it. Ultimately, the Prince of Dorne decides.”

Doran managed to catch his eyes, but Oberyn turned away - he did not wish Doran to see the judgement that surely burned within them. “This disease of mine has long robbed me of my independence, the support of my family is the only means for my function. I find, Quentyn, that the shoulders that I have forever leaned on, may no longer tolerate my burden.” The fire in Doran’s voice had been extinguished leaving nothing but ash. “Arianne,” she jolted. “I will hold no more secrets from you, and neither will I hold any more patience for your frivolities. Your consequences henceforth will be yours alone to suffer, I refuse to take responsibility for your rule. You will join me at the Water Gardens at moon’s end to begin your formal education with me; Quentyn and whoever else so chooses may join us there to determine the new direction Dorne now journeys.” Doran paused, signalled Areo who lifted him onto his wheelchair and began guiding him out of the chamber. “Until then, I ask you to respect my one last plea. I wish to be alone.” 

Oberyn watched as his brother rolled away, while the rest shuffled out behind him. There was a rift growing and Oberyn wasn’t sure he was the ideal choice to close it. “So,” he began as he addressed his nephew and his entourage, all three seemingly unbothered by the severed head still near them. “You really should have made your wife come along, she’s far more diplomatic than you are. The only woman in all of Dorne to tame it’s Doom.”

Quentyn spread his arms wide and welcomed the mention of his warrior’s title with a sharp smile on his face. “You know she wouldn’t settle for less.”

Oberyn wanted to smile but his eyes remained tight despite his upturned lips. “I trust you with this Quentyn, I am not in the habit of going against Doran for decisions that matter. But justice or not, I will not have you drag Elia’s name around so easily.”

“I promise you on both ends. Viserys was as mad as Aerys.” Quentyn gestured, laid his hand and caressed his servant girl’s blue hair gently. “Yen here knew that all too well.”

Oberyn peered closer at her and saw the fading remnants of blue bruises on her face, shame for the pretty little thing. “I see. Nice touch with the blue dye, hides the marks well.”

“My dear wife’s idea. A habit she picked up in Tyrosh of dyeing her hair while we were on our travels across Essos.”

Oberyn laughed at that, “Now I must meet her at the soonest opportunity! To see her legendary beauty in a rainbow of hues.”

Quentyn’s smile shifted to one far more pleased and conspiratorial, Oberyn was pulled in tight by his shoulders and was dragged out the door; his nephew’s tagalongs following dutifully behind them. “I wish I could show you the view at the summit dear uncle, but I’m afraid the rainbow only appears at the valley.”

Oberyn leaned in closer, a worthy conversation, finally!


	2. Chapter 2

**Starfall - 285 to 289 A.C.**

Ashara I

A little over a year ago saw not only the end of a war, but the end of her brother, her would-be, daughter, and nearly her own life. And had it not been for her lord brother entering her chamber by happenstance, the Summer Sea would’ve claimed more than just her tears. She’d not seen her own room since - bound as she was to the ground level of Starfall. 

She knew she’d worried what remained of her family, Lord Dayne and her dear sister Allyria both kept vigil assiduously. She’d not wanted for anything either - but truth be told, she really didn't want at all anymore; just to be left alone to wither away. 

It seemed that her malaise had encouraged her family to now act on her behalf though; her brother had written to Sunspear and they’d responded. ‘ _ This war has already stolen many, we will not lose another child of Dorne.’ _ And suddenly she’d been betrothed. They hadn’t even told her till her intended was already at their threshold. 

She’d expected Oberyn, danced as he had with her at Harrenhal. Yet instead came a babe, Quentyn Martell - the wrong second son.

She’d protested initially, yet her brother wouldn’t have it. The deal was done, there was no going back; which was funny in a way because given the recent troubles with the Yronwoods, Quentyn may have been of more use there instead. 

Unfortunate for him either way in her opinion. Either sold into enmity, or to an old crone. 

Allyria had told her not to think of herself that way on many occasions, but she couldn’t help it. No longer a maiden, not long a mother, and never a wife - that was a life lived already, and she certainly felt it. She remembered telling the Stark of their daughter, he’d had naught to say -  _ Quiet Wolf _ indeed. 

“Feeling sad again?” Ashara’s gaze shot up to the boy sitting opposite her. Merely eight name days - exactly half her own age. As their gazes locked on, it was impossible to notice just how eerie his eyes were - too sharp, too focused. It reminded her of cats stalking prey; to see that same look in a boy set her on edge, she could not speak. He sighed then, clearly irritated with her; snatched away his focus and flopped back into his seat.

“I am.” she found her voice once more, “I do so more often than not these days. Yet, this time, I find it is more for you and more for the Martells. First Elia, now you; and with you any hope of progeny.” She caressed her belly to draw his attention. “The maesters may say otherwise, but I know that I’m left barren - even if not in body, but in spirit for sure.”

He scoffed at her, her hand clenched her dress. “Who cares? If you don’t want children we won’t have any.” He shrugged so simply at her. She felt the silk of her dress slip from her grasp as the tension fell away much the same. Yet if it was from the relief of knowing he might accept her decision, or from the sheer shock of his  blasé attitude... she remained unsure. “I wouldn’t worry about the Martell’s either, they have sons and spears aplenty,” he continued. “And let’s be honest here, though Dorne may worship the seven, they do not rule us. Should it be required of me, blood is blood, bastard or no. Even then, I’m young enough to not know what the little worm between my legs is truly for; worrying about possible children is silly.”

“And yet you do… It is not the only thing you should not know. After all, your ‘little worm’ is not only how you make water is it?” That drew a smile from him, though many a lordly heir would bite back at the sting of accusation. 

As his grin rose, so did his hand. She knew she’d  _ see _ something, but as she felt her skin turn to gooseflesh, the small hairs on her arm stand at attention, the sensations brought power to what she merely assumed would be a cantrip at best. It was becoming apparent that the Water Gardens flooding was no exaggeration from the mouths of smallfolk. As all stories in Westeros tended to do, this one too began with death - a Greenblood orphan’s. Garin, she remembered, for the tale was being whispered to this day; a young boy and milk-brother to both Arianne and Quentyn was found desiccated. Upon discovering the near mummified body of his companion it is said Quentyn wept in grief, his tears filling the pools and fountains till they nearly drowned the palace. 

From nothing, water. Two tendrils broke, dancing around the other till they finally coupled within her empty wine cup. Her hands darted forward, a startled gasp jumped from her lips. The cup was cold, even under the searing Dornish heat, so very cold.

As she swallowed the liquid relief, pressed the frosty silver to her breast, knew for sure it wasn't an illusion either. A cold that managed to seep through the confines of her own internal abyss - for the first time in a while, the brown leaves of melancholy met the first kiss of a new winter. 

Momentary though it had been, winter would not be deterred. Over time Ashara would view this as a touchstone moment, her heart finding it’s beat once more. 

The first year with Quentyn she would often lament. Habits formed took time to remedy. She would lament the state of Starfall, the opportunity that the house of Dawn once represented for an aspiring warrior. Quentyn was old enough to train, and had an obligation to as well, yet despite being at Starfall could not be trained by the Sword of the Morning. But again, he spurned her concern. The training grounds of Starfall soon became his personal chambers, they could be called nothing else with the amount of time he spent on his back there. 

As a girl, she reminisced watching Arthur train. Stalwart, and devastatingly skilled was her brother; it was apparent for all to see that the sword was as natural to Arthur as sand to a desert. Quentyn was nothing like him. He struggled with the forms, lumbering where Arthur was always graceful, falling in moments where Arthur never would. But Quentyn learned and persevered. In time, he grew strong, blades couldn’t touch him as he flowed through and around their strikes; he would watch, wait for the right moment - and then descend with the force of a tidal wave. As natural Arthur was, Quentyn was unnatural - his pace of skill too quick and his strength of body far outstripping any notion of age and size. Perhaps another gift from the Mother Rhoyne, Ashara mused. But in the end, he was able to prove her worries were pointless. 

Her lament turned to confusion. 

It made little sense to her, that the gifts he possessed were bestowed to Quentyn alone.  _ “Then let’s find some more.”  _ A simple solution according to him - in truth however, a tedious undertaking. 

From tip to toes of the Torrentine they travelled together, a  _ honeymoon _ Quentyn had called it. A queer term Ashara had never heard before, and he knew she hadn’t so he explained,  _ “a prayer that every night spent in your arms, remains as sweet as it does now till the rest of our days.”  _ Apparently her betrothed had begun to sharpen his tongue along with his sword. She didn’t mind it one bit. 

Hand in hand they explored the expansive demesne of the Daynes in it’s entirety. Quentyn spoke to all he could, seeking out potential. He had an odd focus on the less established - bastard sons and third daughters, paupers, cripples, widows, servants, and whores. There was no distinction between highborn or low. Ashara assumed that there was some mystical, invisible quality that Quentyn could perceive that brought him most frequently to these sorts of people, but she realized soon enough that he cared not for any intangible, esoteric force - he sought motivation and temperament. 

Whether in gutters or galleries, Quentyn sat with them, listened to them and their desires. He heard hundreds, and chose just nine. 

First, the bastard son of a minor lord, fathered on one of the household maids - for his mother, and for a home where rent wasn’t paid in lashes. 

The second, a young whore who was once one of the many spare daughter of a poor lord, sold for a few barrels of wine - for a life off sore knees to sturdy feet. 

The third, a once leal servant cast aside by his masters for the theft committed by another - one without any of his own, who needed a hand the most. 

Five more came as a troupe of street children; mumming by day and thieving by night - for a happy family and a full larder. 

The ninth, a widow past her prime alone; a refugee from the sack at King’s landing where she was pilloried and presented, savaged and abused for days on end till she lost all use and was tossed out like so much other garbage - for emotional comfort and a chance at vengeance. 

Each was taken to the Torrentine, each was stripped and bathed in the waters, each was suckled at Quentyn’s bleeding wrist. They cried everytime Ashara thought to herself, and when they did, serene waters would turn torrential. A promise of power for the gift of their complete and utter devotion. 

When the last was done, Ashara felt a pang of envy at them, power she thought she’d never know. The gentle hand Quentyn placed on her cheek felt almost like a slap, he brought her down to him, he’d torn through his lip and let the blood flow freely - the taste of iron and the thrum power marked the first kiss they’d ever shared. The tenth oath was made.

Ten tributaries for the new river Rhoyne.

No longer confused, Ashara felt herself wonder then. She wondered the heights which their new power could reach; beyond even the call of violence she heard the plight of those thousands they’d walked among. Dorne could be a harsh landscape, the plague of drought forever looming above their necks like a headsman’s axe. So she told Quentyn and the nine.

All the way back to Starfall, villages found long-dried bedrocks gushing once more. New oases all across her demesne filled to the brim with clear blue Rhoynish waters. 

She returned home to the excitement of her loved ones, and surprisingly, even her own. A scant few years ago the Summer Sea was singing her eulogy, and now it chanted in joy. 

Her own enthusiasm lit the wick in her betrothed as well. Seeds and saplings, wheels and cogs, wood and rope. He realized the potential of the Rhoynish magic to its fullest, utilizing it in agriculture, industry and production, and maritime development. A large carrack with two smaller caravels for their personal use - designed without oars specifically for the singular use with their magical capabilities. Even in still waters her hair would whip like the center of a storm, the oceans parted ahead and pushed from the rear solely for them - damn the drowned gods of the Ironborn, this was true divinity. 

She allowed winter to thaw, and Quentyn bestowed upon her the first sprout of spring.

When the cause of Starfall’s prosperity inevitably spread throughout Dorne, they’d been inundated with requests. From Blackmont to Sunspear, every house was prepared to beggar themselves for the miracles born from their power. 

However, black ravens carried even darker news. Lannisport had been sacked, The Greyjoys had raised their fleet in rebellion. 

The banners were called, but Dorne, through Doran, wanted nothing to do with it. 

Not that mattered one whit to her young betrothed.

The men-at-arms were outfitted and loading their three ships, all tributaries, including the five children, were protected in light armour draped in luxurious Dornish silks - guiding the ships into place for their departure. 

Ashara held the missive,  _ command,  _ from her liege lord and goodfather as she made her way to her and Quentyn’s private chamber. As she opened the door a body collided with her own - far too gently for it not to be concerted, especially considering the head embraced snuggly between her breasts. “Woops.”

She pinched his ear and pulled him out from her pillows; her husband-to-be was rapidly realizing his appreciation of the female form. “Not the time for mischief Quentyn.” The waving parchment caught his interest as quickly as it lost it. Young as he was, still at just ten and two, his head rested comfortable beneath her own. Yet feeling the caress of his steely arms around her - the reminder of his deceptive strength was hard to forget. 

“Let me guess, Doran of House Nymeros Martell has commanded a stay of arms. Let the Lannisters and Iron Throne handle their own problems.” He snatched the letter from her, crumpled it in one hand and threw it over his shoulder. “Fool.”

“Quentyn!” she protested facetiously, she’d known Quentyn wasn’t wont to follow his father’s words, it seemed very clearly to be a family sickness. He entwined his hand with hers and pulled her away. 

“I’ll have you scold me later Ashara, you know I cherish it so.” He hastened their pace, the halls rang with the peals of her laughter. “I fear my own isn't the only father I'm set to wrath. I’ve stolen Dawn and stored it on our ship, we need to make our escape before anyone finds out.”

“Well then! Should you want it to remain in your possession you’re going to have to prove your worth. Let’s see how many of those reaver scum you can send to their drowned god.” And so, with a full contingent of warriors and all their trained Rhoyne tributaries they sailed for Old Wyk. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Old Wyk - 289 A.C.**

Barristan I

Creaks and groans, he was growing tired of those sounds. Yet he was proud to say that despite his ever advancing age, not a single squeak was from his own bones. The sloshing waves that forced the sodden wood of the ship he stood aboard however, set his stomach churning fiercer than the very storm gods the IronBorn feared. But let it be proven once more, that he was a man of most solid steel, his undulating guts included. His feet would be the first parts of his body off this damned vessel - not his bowels. 

Barristan locked his gaze to the rapidly closing landmass ahead of him. Old Wyk, the ancestral seat of House Drumm. As if pirates and slavers deserve such prestige.

The nearer the island drew, the salty breeze of the ocean was quickly being replaced by the acrid stench of smoke and blood. Though the sun had yet to rise from it’s daily rest, the horizon remained bright as the old castle of House Drumm had long been turned into pyre. The wails of despair joined the flames in their cruel choire. 

His ship found berth, and the planks were lowered. He saw the banners then, not of Shatterstone and Goodbrook, neither Drumm nor Stonehouse. But above them all, framed by the backdrop of Nagga’s Hill, flew the bright purple banner of the House of Dayne. 

“It appears the missive was no jape.” Barristan peered over his shoulder to find Lord Rosby, red-faced and sweating; some may imagine from the ocean sway but Barristan was very aware of how much space good wine was wasting in the cargo hold. The older Barristan grew, the more he found his post as a Kingsgaurd was better suited to wetnurses and handmaids. Children and drunken lords seemed to share temperament and hobbies in equal measure. 

"Ho!" A man-at-arms waving the Father sigil loudly hailed them from atop yet another rocky plateau that dotted this barren waste. Without a word Selmy altered his direction and headed towards the man, hopefully the Lords would follow along like the ducklings they were.

As he crested the hill, Barristan realised the true devastation that had been brought to these isles. From the shattered gates of the crumbling curtain wall that once surrounded the burning keep, all the way down to the foothills that lead to the rocky beach that held the central pier of Old Wyk, Barristan saw naught but a river of corpses.

As they trudged through the carnage with their Dornish guide, the journey to the small command tent was near constantly serenaded by exclamations of  _ 'By the Gods!', 'Seven above!,  _ And intermittently by the occasional retching of the more green of their retinue. A yelp and the clatter of colliding steel forced them to stop, as one of the other drunken lords fancied a tumble atop an already cooled corpse, the Lord Stokeworth this time. With a frustrated sigh Barristan marched at the still prone lout and dragged him back on to his feet. "It is not wise, my lord, to grant yourself rest amongst the dead. There's more than enough here that we may easily leave you for lost too." 

"But Ser Barristan, that's Lord Drumm!" He followed the shaky finger and quavering voice to look at the unseeing, glassy eyes of one Dunstan Drumm himself. Barristan sharpened his gaze, hurriedly surveyed the surrounding bodies; and unsurprisingly found the near giant form of one of the Iron Island's fiercest warriors, Andrik. Who even in death remained unsmiling. He, however, could not find either of the Drumm heirs.

"It is but another reaver." Dismissed the Dornishman; his voice and rhythm of speech tugging deeply at Barristan's yearning for better days and better brothers. "Leave it be, my prince awaits and he is not a patient man." 

So they had no choice but to continue on. Mercifully though, they finally passed over the mass grave to arrive instead at a mummer’s stage. 

“Does anyone speak for this reaver?” a surprisingly young Dayne soldier called out to a braying audience. Withered whitebeards and waifish women all clamoring at a kneeling, shackled Iron Born, the very same he was searching for out amongst the carrion. Denys Drumm, the heir to Old Wyk was on the chopping block. 

Thralls and salt-wives were frothing at the mouth as the young headsman meted out justice to the long suffering victims of the reaver scourge. “Now isn’t that a shame? Not a one cares to aid you iron scum!” Dayne addressed the crowd again, cupping his ear and leaning towards them. “What the verdict?”

“Off with his head!” The crowd roared loud enough that Barristan felt the sound reverberate in his chest. He saw it then, through the blood caked around it, he’d not forget the shape of a blade he’d held a hundred times, and faced ten times more. A painful reminder of a bygone era, his heart found impossible to ignore. As it rose and pierced the rising sun behind it, Dawn fell. 

“Prince Quentyn!” Their guide urged them forward, Barristan wanted to take measure of the young man but he found that he could not. His gaze found no other purchase than the star steel; its pristine white he’d long since grown accustomed to rapidly being stained red - he feared forever. 

Lord Rosby made himself known then, “Prince Quentyn? As in Quentyn Martell? That’s absolutely preposterous! That boy’s barely meant to be ten-and-two namedays!”

The young man looked himself up and down in mock confusion; the lords around Barristan were fortunately smart enough to come to the conclusion that the figure before them still had years of growing left to do. Yet Rosby pushed on, “Bu-but what about the banners? Why only fly the Dayne’s? What about the Martells?”

“These are my lady wife’s men alone, so I fly their banners alone. I imagine the Martell banners are folded and collecting dust in storage back at Sunspear where Prince Doran prefers they remain.” The contempt was thick and viscous to Barristan’s ears, had the boy been trying to hide it at all, The Kingsguard was sure his Redkeep trained ears would be able to pick it up just as easily. 

Lord Rosby was halted swiftly by Prince Quentyn’s raised palm, “who’s next, Whip?” 

The young Martell glanced over his shoulder to address the man behind him; who, judging by the sleeves flapping lightly in the breeze, lacked both arms below his elbows. “That was the last of them, my prince. The lady Ashara has requested we break our fast alongside her and the rescued victims of these cursed isles soon.” For a moment, the sweet lilting Dornish tones had relaxed him, yet at the very mention of his haunting beauty he felt his spine stiffen.

Quentyn passed the soiled blade over to another excruciatingly young Dornish boy and ruffled his hair. “Clean this for me would you, Oedi.” the stern young man didn’t even blink at the multitude of corpses around them, merely running off with the legendary sword to the lone tent. 

He turned back to them, “Well, I guess I’ll have to feed you all too. Come along.” 

Not ten steps in, Barristan could no longer hold his tongue. “Prince Martell, I am Barristan Sel-”

“I know who you are.” The prince laughed at him. “Who doesn’t? Barristan the fucking Bold!”

Barristan felt his breath ease a little, there was clear admiration there. “I must ask, my Lord, are you truly saying that you have brought Lady Dayne with you? In the middle of a war? And not to bring offence, but you yourself are… rather young.”

“That’s right!” Barristan peered to see another crownlord, Lord Hayford, boiling over at the odd circumstance they’d found themselves in. “This is war, no place for bitches and babes!”

“Then why are you here?” came the quick rebuttal; the prince not even deigning to face the man with his response. “But call my Lady a bitch again, and I’ll make you cry like the squealing infant you are.” Hayford began spluttering in indignation, so Barristan jumped in before matters could escalate. 

“Though Lord Hayford forgets his courtesies, it is a valid sentiment - if not presented in the most amicable means.” 

Prince Quentyn side-eyed him. “As I said, these are her men, her ships, her resources. We’re also coming to lands that have hundreds of savaged women and children, a woman’s gentle hand is far better here than a soldier’s gauntlet.” He pointed further down the beach at a large campsite. More and more Barristan was seeing the true greed for flesh the IronBorn reavers had. “We’ve commandeered all the longships left on this island, we’re offering safe passage to everyone who wants off these cursed rocks - all on her authority alone. As for me, my age really is a poor reflection of my effectiveness as a warrior.” The prince turned more full to him. “Take yourself for example Ser Barristan, I heard you rode your first tourney at ten. I’m older than that at least.”

“Aye, I did. A folly of youth I’d not see any repeat, it was terribly foolish of me. I could have very easily been killed or injured beyond repair.”

“Yet you didn’t . Instead you planted the seeds for one of the most prolific legends in modern history. This may very well be my own attempt at legend.” Being a longtime denizen of the Red Keep, Barristan was more than used to being showered in insincere praise, yet with the young man walking by his side… it had been a while since Barristan had felt his chest swell. 

“Legend?” The crownlords were once again making themselves known, and judging by the growing irritation on the Dornish surrounding them, very unwelcome. “You’ll live on in infamy, boy! You can’t just go and annihilate four historic, noble houses. That’s not done, not even in war!”

“I paid their price of iron, and they choked on it. With only a hundred men-at-arms, the very ones currently escorting you, I have decimated four ironborn houses.” Quentyn gestured at his soldiers, who following his signal tightly ensconced the crownlord retinue. “Should it be required I can provide a live demonstration of how I did so, right here, right now. Would you like me to do so?” Quentyn turned around, and Barristan saw far more sober faces. “The Lords here are tired, men, shepherd them back to their own ships. Ser Barristan, you shall dine with my wife and I, where we will further discuss our next heading.” 

Barristan wanted to protest, the various lords under his nominal lead being dismissed so easily by a child was a poor image for all. Yet he knew when to not fight a losing battle. “As you say, my Lord.” 

The winds had begun to grow heavy leaving his white cloak to flutter with the same ferocity. It was another aspect of his life he’d long ago resigned as necessary burden; yet as he saw those haunted amethyst eyes, the dusky skin he knew to be softer than the finest cotton, and a smile he’d never thought her capable of - pointed solely at the young man beside him, Barristan could have easily confused his white cloak for a taut garrote across his throat. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Ironman’s Bay - 289 A.C.**

Euron ‘Crow’s Eye’ I

Euron was perched in the nest. The sea stack was tall enough that only the very top of the mast was visible, hiding the Silence and the other lonships anchored beside him and the other half across the bay. This was the perfect chokepoint to assault the greenlanders before they could reach Harlaw.

A low whistle pierced the wind. Euron grabbed his far-eye and surveyed the horizon, licking his lips in anticipation of another reaving. He panned across the still waters, and there, five ships in closed formation. A Dornish sigil and four sails from the crownlands - virgin prospects that he’d delight in taking like a fresh, young salt-wife. 

He’d claim his last prize here and race off to Essos. His victories were cemented with the rape of Lannisport, and his belly was full to burst with Westorosi blood. To go forward, he must pass under the shadow. He’d reave farther than any before him and return and claim what was always meant to be his. Balon will sink Pyke under the weight of his stupidity, he knew his brother far too well to know any success would find him. Balon Breakpyke they should call him.

He considered being rid of him, like he did with Harlon - no one would question it. He’d shuck his head open like an oyster and scoop out the flesh and leave it for the crows. 

The whistle called again. The greenlander’s escape was impossible. They were too close now, he could almost smell them through the salt.

“All sail! Oars, double time on the rows - I better not hear any complaints!” He laughed aloud, his tongueless little rats scurried about the deck. 

He looked through the far-eye again, they were near enough for him to really get a good look at their decks now. Fat pigs and knob-kneed foals. All but one, purple like a ripe plum. The lens revealed boys and girls, crones and greybeards, cripples and Kingsguards. Euron couldn't wait to sink his teeth in.

Blood battered his veins like storm waves, his mast was full.

Euron's little plum panicked when it saw the longship ambush. Sails quickly furled, they were trying to run. And pull away it did - in the wrong direction. 

Five babes and the crone moved to the edge of the starboard, while five others went to the port side. They all clasped invisible oars and stroked. With each scoop the ship ate distance, the rest of their little fleet bobbed on the surface like a drowned corpse.

The other half of Euron’s fleet had a stronger wind behind them, putting them closer to the racing plum. The five on the port side halted their rowing, in tandem they raised their hands and water fell up. A blanket of wet held firm in their grasp, they struck it down in the same motion one used to dust bedding and sheets. A wave rolled forward, growing larger and fiercer the closer it drew to the attacking ships.

_ Sorcery _ .

With every flap, the sheets whipped higher and faster. Waves upon waves hammered down on those ships, they cracked, crashed, crumbled till the sea ran red. The sharks would scrum in the well chummed waters, the drowned God would have to fight for even a sliver of the bloody bounty. 

There was more movement on their ship. The crone and the babes joined hands in a circle and began to dance around themselves like those old children's games. He had to hurry. "Drop anchor! Reverse oars! Hard to port, swerve, swerve, swerve!" The rats ran ragged.

As the ring turned, the sea sunk. The other longships raced ahead of him, too stupid for caution. The eddy swirled, snatching those longships and swallowing them whole. The whirlpool's jaws gnashed hard, splintering wood and bone in a shattering crunch.

It drove him deaf, but certainly not blind. The assault was a failure - his only choice was to run. This sorcery wasn't something he could face yet. He'd survive and learn and return this insult a hundred fold. 

He found his far-eye once more, he needed to memorize the face. Young and soft and pretty; he'd pay the boy a visit like he used to with Urri and Aeron. Even the Others wouldn’t take him after Euron was done. 

The boy swiped a clawed hand up in the same motion Euron would use to roughly squeeze a whores arse. And just like his grip on a plump behind, sharp, thick fingers of ice burst through the sea, piercing his hull, and trapping the silence in their merciless hold. He was dead in the water. 

Those below were likely dead or dying, more than a few on deck found themselves impaled like shrike’s prey. The sail-less ship sliced through the water, breached the Silence’s broadside with hooked ropes, and planted the boarding plank hard. 

“To arms, you cunts! It’s time to pay the iron price!” 

Some swung on ropes, the few brave enough leapt without, while the majority charged down the plank. His mutes met the force in their wordless roar and sang the only song they could still sing - the one of steel. 

With an axe and shield he launched himself into the chaos, the knight and the lordling would undoubtedly come strolling down the plank, and if not he’d board their ship himself. Sure enough two figures marched down from the flank, white hair and white cloak on one, crisp white steel held with the other. 

He rushed at them, shoulder checking a faceless dornish in his path overboard. But the lack of a splash to accompany the scream forced him to look down. Gentle ropes of water caught him halfway and guided him back onto the invading ship. The armless cripple smirked at him. Euron would see how long he could after he bashed his master’s head to a pulp. 

The Dayne and the kingsguard were carving through his pets like oven-fresh hot pie. The boy spotted him, immediately he abandoned Barristan to a double team, instead choosing to race to Euron. Perfect. Euron had faced knights and warriors of renown, others with skill and both and neither; it didn’t matter he’d always triumphed, quenching his deep thirst with their tears. This little lordling too would learn to dread the Crow’s eye.

Their steel met with a shower of sparks; Euron pulled in close and breathed in deep, the boy reeked of mother’s milk. “Come, little lordling, let’s have us a quick taste of you.” 

He pushed them back and swung his sword at Euron. The crow’s eye brought his shield to bear, but the sword proved too sharp for even that steel, slashing through, barely missing his arm, and leaving a crescent with sharp ends. “You’d only choke and croak on me squid!” 

“What is dead may never die!”

They began in earnest, ducks, dodges, swipes, and strikes. The boy was short and slippery like an eel, using his smaller frame he swum through Euron's strikes, leaving his axe to catch naught but wind.

Yet he couldn't do much to Euron either, too small, too weak to land a good hit. He was half-handing where he could so that his white steel might bite Euron, but the crow's eye was just as swift. Then, he jammed the pommel hard into Euron's kidney, momentarily stealing his breath, Euron lashed out and kicked the little shit in his chest, forcing him back a pace or two. And in that same moment he stabbed his sword into the same spot and licked Euron's flesh. But too shallow, his reach was shit - that didn’t stop the blood spurting out though. 

They paced around each other. "I'm going to eat your fucking kidney, rare and bloody, and suck it down with sweet wine straight from your skull!" Euron crowed his promise to the shit. 

The boy's eyes were firmly on him, yet as they circled each other, Euron saw no other fighting. Barristan was drawn and ready to step in, he was wary but clearly astonished at how well the shit was faring - Euron understood, because he was wondering the same fucking thing! But the rest were either watching their show or finishing up his dead rats. The red deck of his silence hid the blood too easily for him to notice till it was too late. 

The shit noticed it too, and was all teeth. He’d gotten cocky, the cocky ones were always stupid. Euron rushed him, he kept his shield ready. Euron swung wide and clear, dangling his bloody side as bait, and just as expected he bit. His sword arced, Euron pivoted, the steel whiffed. 

Euron curved with the pivot, adding its power to his next move and bashed the little bastard with the razor-sharp edge of his shield. And what sweet sound his pained howl made. The crow’s eye shredded through flesh and chomped the bone - he’d felt it jolt his arm. Flat on his back, bleeding at his feet, just like all the others. Euron brought his shield up again, fresh blood glistening off it’s edge, he couldn’t resist darting his tongue out to capture its flavor. “Too bad, we could have had so much more fun together.” 

He swung his axe for the shit’s neck, or at least tried to. Two strong whips of water caged Euron’s arm, that moment was all the shit needed to kick the bottom of the shield with both his feet, plunging the keen rim through Euron’s throat, tongue, and into his mouth. 

Euron pulled it out, a river of red followed. Euron had seen this before, done this before, it wasn’t clean, but Euron knew he’d bleed out in minutes. Euron fell to his knees, and collapsed on his side. 

Barristan jumped in and quickly pulled the shit up with his good arm. “If Brightflame hadn’t already set the bar for recklessness by chugging wildfire, each and every maester would be using you as a warning!” The Bold spanked the little shit. 

His men came too. A woman ran over the plank, she clutched at his bleeding wound trying to pinch it together and stymy the bleeding; she poured something on it - it stank of strong spirit. All the while she was laughing, it was ugly, wet and thick with worry. 

The life was streaming out of Euron, yet all that went through his mind was how familiar this all was...

No! This was wrong! He’d seen this before, he’d strived for this and more, but it was wrong. The crow had shown him, Euron had flown. A boiling sea of blood, now the rupturing red deck of the silence. The spears of ice melted into roiling pillars of water crashing upon his ship like writhing tentacles from the deep. The dreadful woman was there too, haunting and laughing, hands holding white fire while children capered around their feet. 

Years ago, the crow had seen with him too, and it squawked in horror while Euron had shrieked in glee. Euron was to be the ultimate, a thousand and one gods prostrating themselves at his feet. The crow hadn’t liked that and tried to rip his wings, so Euron clawed out it’s eye and took it for his own. And now here he lay, fading before another. It was wrong! The blood was coming fast now, he gurgled, “m...mine. Suppose-” blood and bile tore their way out. “To be me!”

Euron saw the shit smile again. “I know.” He leaned down further, and spoke with barely a whisper, cradling his mangled arm, “ _ I know.” _

“Everyone off this tub! I’m delivering it to their drowned god!” He cut the air with his bleeding hand, the ice melted. 

No! This was wrong, all wrong! Crow’s eye saw no more. 


End file.
